


Write All Things Plain

by nebulastars



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-01
Updated: 2011-03-01
Packaged: 2020-11-02 06:43:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20656625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nebulastars/pseuds/nebulastars
Summary: Modern AU. Arthur is a Norwegian exchange student. Merlin discovers his magic. Reincarnation fic!





	Write All Things Plain

**Author's Note:**

> This is oooold and was meant to be silly (see: Arthur being of a different nationality) but ended up being, well, what it is. Not too heavy, just a couple of dudes destined to be together. Posting it here now mostly for me and just because I felt nostalgic tbh :)

When it happens, Merlin doesn't even expect it.  
  
It's beginning of a new term of college and he's not a total recluse, but he knows what it's like not to have anyone talk to you, so in the cafeteria line he gets behind the new kid, blond and blue-eyed, and, because he's _friendly_ and nice and likes to meet new people, he says, "Hi, I'm Merlin. You're the new exchange student, right?" The guy nods, cracks a small smile, says, "Yeah, I'm Arthur," without even a hint of a foreign accent, extends a friendly hand that Merlin takes, squeezes. And Merlin says, impressed, "You sound like a native Brit," to which Arthur laughs, big and bright, telling him that, "Yeah, well, I've always had a bit of an ear for accents and languages. My dad owns several businesses all over the world, so I guess I've picked up some things traveling. It gets me in trouble most times because people think I'm making fun of them, but I'm really not, I just change my accent unknowingly as I pick up on the other person's. In Norway there are a bunch of accents—as many as there are places, they say—and people from other places tend to really hate me until I explain to them that I really, honestly, isn't making fun of _anybody_ and—sorry, I'm talking too much," and Arthur smiles a smile that stretches from one ear to the other, teeth blending white, light hair falling into his eyes, and—and then the world just _stops_.  
  
Merlin blinks, looks around at the cafeteria where every, single person in the room has frozen into the position they were in, everyone except Merlin, and he knows it's his fault, because how can it not be? 1) He is the only one still in control of his body and 2) a tremble runs over his skin, through it, runs beneath it in his bloodstream, like it is what's holding everyone's movements back. He waves an uncertain hand in front of Arthur's unblinking eyes and never-fading smile, pokes a nervous finger into his cheek, the skin warm still and not cold like he half-expected, but Arthur doesn't even flinch. Then he thinks, _Arthur, wake up_, and he does, the buzz of people in the background returning with him, apparently unfazed by it all, the smile on Arthur's lips quickly fading upon seeing Merlin's shocked face.  
  
"I'm sorry," he says, eyes darting down to the floor, mumbles, "didn't mean to offend you?" like he's asking a question.  
  
"You—you _didn't_," Merlin assures, forces his lips into a smile. "You want to come sit with my friends and I?"  
  
Arthur accepts with a small nod, teeth slowly revealed behind pink lips again, and Merlin pushes all thoughts of magic and the weird, coincidental (or not) match of their names, so right together, so familiar in tales and history and the back of Merlin's tongue, into the back of his mind. He grabs his tray without shaking too much, leads Arthur over to his stem table, through a moving crowd completely unaware of what just happened, introduces him to everyone and they fall for him immediately, fuzz over him and ask him questions about Norwegian culture and traditions. Arthur's head must be spinning by the end of it; Merlin's is too, but for completely different reasons.  
  
_Magic_, he doesn't think, goes home at the end of the day and consciously decides not to think about it some more.

*

  
  
  
The thing is, Merlin somehow thinks that if what happened indeed was magic (and he inwardly cringes at the thought, like it's so stupid to even think of such a thing existing in the first place), he ought to have known about it sooner. Right? Right. Had he been magic he wouldn't have first found out about it at 18 years old, would he? He has no recollection of ever doing anything similar to the cafeteria incident, so. Whatever it was, it probably means nothing.  
  
During the following week he thinks himself in and out of the thought about a million times. Thinks, _It was magic._ Then, seconds later, _It was just your imagination running away with you— it tends to do that._ Nothing else happens either, not even when around Arthur, who seems to have made his nest within their small group already, having settled besides Ollie and Tony on the football field and Grace on the literature front, on the opposite side of James when it comes to TV shows ("True Blood is _golden_, it's fucking ace, man," James says enthusiastically, to which Arthur snorts and says, "Enough with the vampires already. Have you seen Six Feet Under? Such an awesome, haunting show." James scowls at him disapprovingly at that, turns to flash him his back and Arthur laughs and laughs) but they get along anyway, agrees to disagree. Sarah teases him endlessly and Arthur bites back just as viciously, bickering like brother and sister already. And Merlin—Merlin is Arthur's counter side in everything, preferring to sit on the sideline where Arthur would rather participate; liking slow, darker music whereas Arthur rocks out to heavy guitars and amplified sounds. Merlin hasn't traveled much in his life, too poor and never having enough time, but Arthur has been all over Europe, some of Asia, even America a few times—constantly following his father around on trips to check up on his investments and businesses, sometimes willingly, sometimes because his mother tells him to—and, well. They get along like two people who shouldn't, really, unless you take the "opposites attract" saying to heart. But something clicks, slots easily into place like a puzzle designed for just that one purpose, and soon they're inseparable.  
  
"I feel like I've known you forever. Like a. Like the brother I never had or something," Arthur tells him a month after meeting, arms around him in a headlock.  
  
"Family," Merlin agrees, kicks and swats to be let go, tries to bite playfully on the flesh of Arthur's hand but misses, and it happens again just like that; there's an invisible kick to Arthur's backside and he loses his footing, his grip around Merlin's neck slipping and Arthur stumbles forward and falls flat on his face. He looks bewildered around the empty space of Merlin's room and asks, "What—who—_how_? Did your leg somehow miraculously grow a few feet and kick me over?"  
  
Merlin shrugs, eyes surely big as plates, because he _doesn't know_, but does anyway—feels the energy at his fingertips slowly ease off and go back to normal, to skin and nerves that just _feel_ and not—and not—  
  
"Yeah," he says, surges forward and wrestles with Arthur on the floor until the boy begs for mercy and the moment for asking questions is gone.  


*

  
  
  
At night he dreams. Dreams of mythical creatures and an older version of himself sporting a pretty massive beard, reaching him to his waist, the gray ends of his hair stopping just short of his collarbone. He's producing magic by just a flick of the hand or one pointed look. He's saving someone, someone he never sees the front side of, only the back, shoulders broad, the man carrying with him a natural sense of authority, masculinity. He swings the blade of a sword around, making men fall with ease, leaving them lifeless in his trail, but then from time to time an arrow makes its way towards him and Merlin focuses hard until it stops mid-air, channeling back to the sender who lets out a surprised yelp right before the arrow shoots between his chest.  
  
The scenarios change quickly, like the zapping between channels on the telly, from battlefields to throne rooms to bedrooms—_chambers_—and here is where things become fuzzy. The scene always changes around the time he reaches out to touch the blond mop of hair of the sleeping man in front of him, his own beard gone and he feels younger, looks it too, stares at his hand in wonder as the fingers bury themselves in the soft locks. A pang of fondness implodes in his chest, warmth spreading to every hidden corner, the beating of his heart increasing rapidly. Then it's gone, back to a battle or the back of a horse in the middle of the forest.  
  
One night he dreams of flying. First on the back of a dragon as big as the next-door house, if not bigger, then on his own, just his body circling through clouds high on the night sky, the wind whooshing in his ears, deafening on the steady rise up, up, up, and Merlin wakes with a jolt, hovering several inches above his bed until a yelp of terror slips between his lips and he falls back down on the mattress with a loud thud.  
  
There's a soft bang from the wall at his side. "Everything okay?" his mother asks through the paper-thin walls and somewhere between his shivers and the cold-sweat running down his back, he manages a somewhat reassuring, "Yeah, yeah, just a bad dream, is all."  
  
He doesn't fall back to sleep, after that.  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Then one day, during the intermission of English Lit. and History, Arthur nudges Merlin's side as they stroll past a seemingly infinite sea of blue lockers and says, "Hey, remember that time you stupidly drank that cup of poison and almost _died_?"  
  
Merlin laughs and doesn't even think about it when he answers, "Yes. But you wouldn't have listened to me otherwise, not you, not your father…" Arthur comes to an abrupt halt at his side and Merlin stops, too, stares at the face of the boy in front of him, slowly crumbling and going pale as if all the blood of it is physically drained from the underside of his jaw into the sharp end of a needle.  
  
"I didn't, uh. What just happened?" Arthur asks, wide-eyed. Merlin can't do anything but shrug because he doesn't _know_. It felt like a memory etched into his soul, both fond and terrifying in itself, but he hasn't drunk poison before, not for Arthur, not for anyone. He doesn't think he's even _seen_ actual poison in his life, unless you count the ones meant for rats. It doesn't make sense, but somehow it does.  
  
"I," Merlin starts, burying his hands in his pockets. Arthur brushes it off with a hand before he can get another word in, says, "It's probably nothing," and whispers something Merlin can only presume to be Norwegian under his breath before finding his feet again, disappearing between the crowd of bodies walking up and down the hallway alongside them.  
  
Yeah, he's right, Merlin thinks, following him. It's probably nothing.  
  
  


*

  
  


[_Nothing_ like the world's evolvement, carrying souls around the universe long after the body disappears into dust, into nothing, just fades, and it floats like tangled seaweed on the surface of large bodies of water, traveling distances it never thought possible, if seaweeds can think (of course they can, _of course_, they're living mechanisms too, aren't they?), through storms and windless days, going below surface, suffocating in the mass and pressure of the water, resurrects at the coast of India, at the coast of New Zealand, at the coast of Korea and California and Iceland, visits every small and large part of the world until it finally washes onto land, grabbing hold of the hard surface of a rock or the grainy strays of sand, finally settled, finally home, finally back to where it's supposed to be; just like the fleeting souls in the universe, drifting until the axes tilt back into position and they're sent off in the right direction, pushed onto shore, back into a physical form and the world laughs because it's done it, done nothing and everything, broken limits of time by just continuing. It's done nothing, and yet. And _yet_.]

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
It doesn't stop. None of it. To the contrary, it _evolves_.  
  
Merlin sits in his father's old chair (it used to mock him, in the beginning: "Your father _left_ you like a coward without even saying goodbye; I am all you have to prove his existence") in the living room of their crappy, disheveled apartment hardly big enough for Merlin and his mom, but it works, he's grown accustomed to it. His mother's out at her nine-to-five job at a grocery store and Merlin's exhausted from waking up every night with his heart practically jumping out of his chest. Slowly drifting off, he thinks he'd love it if someone wrapped him in a blanket because he's too drained to get one himself and jerks in surprise when a large piece of fabric brays over his tired limbs unaided. He blinks and blinks, touches the blanket with trembling hands and yes, it's real, it exists, he can feel the softness of it between his fingertips.  
  
After the initial shock has gone, he imagines the TV turning on and it does. He thinks the volume higher and lower and on the screen the bars indicating the sound follows his line of thoughts, up and down, up, down, like a roller coaster racing through the sky. The sofa moves, the chairs are knocked over and straightened again in a few seconds, the lights flicker on and off.  
  
Merlin tests out his hand, remembering how easy it had been in his dreams, moves items around by just thinking and imagining, steering them with his hand hovering in the air meters away. It shouldn't be possible and it isn't, he is probably on the verge of losing his mind, too much television, too many crazy dreams, but he feels amazing. Magic, if that's what it is, feels amazing and something that's always been missing finds its way back to him as the energy floats through his body, builds in strength and power, and he breathes with relief as it fills him up because he's never felt more _whole_.  
  
When his mother comes home, she finds him sleeping soundly in the chair in front of the projecting television.  
  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
Arthur doesn't avoid him, exactly, but he seems more wary around him after the talk of the poison, watches him out of the corner of an eye at all times as if he expects Merlin to transform into some big monster and eat him up.  
  
Merlin gets it. He treats Arthur with the same kindness as before, laughs with him and shows him random clips he comes across on YouTube, chats with him about nothing online at night when they both should have gone to sleep hours ago (unlike the times when they would talk about important things, like missed family connections; about Arthur's busy parents always nagging him about this and that until the point where he just _snapped_ and decided he had to leave. Back when Merlin shared his soul, talked about his father being so tired of the fighting and far more fond of the liquored substances that he just left when Merlin was three and then somehow decided to never return), but there is something wedged between them, something unspoken and unknown but definitely real. Whenever around Arthur, something knots in his chest, making it harder to breathe.  
  
As if that wasn't enough, Merlin starts noticing the form of Arthur's back when he isn't looking and there's a fluttering then, at the pit of his stomach, tickling his insides. He feels like he should know what it is, like a word stuck to the tip of his tongue and he tries to scrape it off by dragging it along the underside of his teeth, unsuccessfully.  
  
He still dreams of battles and the mysterious man he's always helping, sees an entire lifetime of stories unfold before his eyes at night, the timeline off and jumping between young and old, middle-aged, just a kid. It doesn't feel like dreams, it feels like remembering and Merlin honestly doesn't know what to do with that, so he does nothing at all. He just lies back and lets the dreams come to him.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
(Sometimes Merlin will stop the world like that first time, getting a hang of it now, and just stare at Arthur's face still like a statue, and wonder.)  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Christmas comes crashing like an unexpected trailer to the side of a moving car, and Arthur goes home for a weekend. It's not really normal for exchange students to leave anytime during their stay, but his family asks him nicely ("They've always been so accustomed to having me around, even if we just saw each other at dinner time; I don't think they know what to do with themselves now that I'm not there. And even if it's been good to just get away, I do miss them," Arthur laughs) and his host parents don't mind much. It's only an hour plane-ride from Heathrow anyway, so he goes and Merlin feels like a huge chunk of his heart flew away with him without really knowing why.  
  
The first night Merlin closes his eyes in the pressing darkness of his bedroom and opens them in a dimly lit one he's never stepped foot into in his life, an unfamiliar Ramones poster nailed to the wall facing him.  
  
"Merlin?" a voice says to his right. Arthur sits slumped at the foot of a bed, legs tossed over the edge, elbows resting on thighs. He looks tired and worn even more so than surprised and Merlin has to resist the urge to just run over and hug him.  
  
Merlin opens his mouth to speak, but blinks and finds himself back in his own bed, heart thumping wildly inside his chest.  
  
Seconds later his phone signals the arrival of a new text message.  
  
_I must miss you more than I thought. I swear I just saw you standing in my room. How weird?_  
  
If there's even a hint of a lump stuck in his throat at the confession of Arthur _missing him_ (and the other slightly more terrifying thing the text implies), Merlin ignores it.  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
"Merlin," Arthur whispers, blood pooling out from a wound in his chest. Everywhere around them men are swinging swords around and shouting at one another, but between the two of them everything is completely still.  
  
"Yes. Sire?" Merlin hears himself say, choking on the words. His fingers are twisted in the mix of gray and blond hair at the nape of Arthur's neck, the man's head warm and heavy in his lap.  
  
Arthur laughs, a little strained. "I think it's too late for you to start calling me 'Sire' now, you complete and utter idiot."  
  
Merlin laughs too, ignoring the warmth of tears streaming down his cheeks. "Yes, Sire."  
  
"I think maybe," Arthur starts but interrupts himself with a cough. Drops of red prickles out from the side of his mouth, running over the small hill of his lip, down to his chin, leaving a trail of blood in its wake before dripping off.  
  
"I'm sorry I couldn't save you," Merlin says, grief already tearing at the seams of his skin, cutting his chest open, because he knows not even he is powerful enough to fix this. Not this time.  
  
The clear blue of Arthur's eyes pierce through his soul, burning hot and significant like nothing else. Merlin clutches at the hair, strokes a thumb over his cheek.  
  
"I've loved you through thick and thin and you've loved me back; it's all I could ever hope to have achieved from life," Arthur says, gravely serious. "Don't be sorry, Merlin, we have a lifetime of memories to look back on, all of which I am eternally grateful for."  
  
"I miss the time when you weren't so wise and kingly," Merlin smiles, face crumbling. "But it's not long enough, is it? We haven't done all we're supposed to yet. _Don't_ look at me like that, Arthur. Despite your poetic bullshit I know you agree."  
  
Merlin breaks down in tears and Arthur joins him, twists a hand into the fabric of Merlin's tunic and holds on for dear life.  
  
"I love you too," Merlin whispers and kisses Arthur until he stops responding, hand slipping from the fabric and falling limply to his side.  
  
Merlin wakes with a loud gasp, the broken pieces of his heart crumbled into a pile at the bottom of his stomach. The lights in his room are flaring on and off along with his ragged breaths and his entire body _hurts_, feeling cold as ice about to break and on fire, skin bubbling under the heat.  
  
And then Merlin remembers. (How could he have forgotten?)  
  
  


*

  


It all blends into one another, everything he knows now and have known before, every memory, every laugh and tear and feeling: Mordred laughs and jams the tip of his sword into Arthur's skin; Merlin turns in time to see Arthur's knees give out under him. "You? _Magic?_" Arthur spits, disbelief and realization spilling over his face. "My father's dead," Arthur says, "I have to become _king_." Merlin clutches Arthur to his chest, pressing his lips to the top of his golden locks. "You'll be fine," he assures, knows he will. Gwen runs off with Lancelot and Arthur isn't even remotely surprised, tells Merlin so while pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Magic is banned and Merlin feels so alone and _helpless_, feels like he is about to burst with everything he can do but can't tell. When Gaius dies Merlin doesn't move for days, forgets how to, and Arthur waits on _him_ for once, never leaving his side. "I want you to be my advisor," Arthur says seriously, holding his gaze. "Yes," Merlin replies immediately because he doesn't really have a choice here, not when it's Arthur telling him to, and because to spend the rest of his life at Arthur's side is all he could have ever wanted. "You're a sorcerer," Arthur laughs, traces the lines of Merlin's hand with a soft finger. "You're _Merlin_ and you're a sorcerer. How can two so completely different personalities be stuck in the same body?" Merlin doesn't hesitate to punch him lightly on the arm. "Watch it or I'll magic you into a toad." "Oh, I'm so scared, _Mer_lin." Kissing him always seems to be a good way of shutting him up, so that's exactly what Merlin does, laughing into the familiar space of Arthur's mouth. When Arthur dies, Merlin lives on but every smile is so forced he doesn't know how to produce a real one by the time his own life comes to an end.  


*

  
  
  
"Arthur," Merlin whispers into the dark room, struggling to breathe. "Let me go to Arthur, please, please, please," he tells his shaking body, tries to will it to move through space again, but absolutely nothing happens.  
  
Merlin cries for all the lost lives they could have lived since the first one, cries for their fleeting souls and the ocean dividing them now. The clock on his nightstand blinks 4:32 AM but all Merlin can see are the years separating then and now, the flashes of memories playing like a broken record on the back of his eyelids.  
  
  


*

  
  
He goes to Arthur an hour before his plane touches ground and waits in front of the steps until he returns. When the car turns into the driveway, Arthur's host parents gives him a friendly greeting that Merlin returns, impatiently turning to a slightly fazed Arthur and demanding that they need to talk alone for a few moments. The host mom, Tracy, says, "You boys go ahead and talk; I'll just make some waffles in the meantime," and Merlin thanks her, drags Arthur up to his room.  
  
He means to talk it out, set them both down and speak calmly and reposed so that they both understand, but the moment the door closes behind them he bursts out, "Don't you remember me, Arthur? _Arthur?_" not even giving him a chance to reply before leaning in for a kiss, tears already clogging up his view. Arthur pushes him off, shouts, "What do you think you're doing?!" but he hesitates; Merlin sees it and tries again, holding him close with arms locked behind his back. And then Arthur kisses back, sloppy and desperate, but more or less perfect all the same.  
  
"I've missed you," Merlin says, so close to Arthur's face his eyes cross. "I'm sorry I didn't realize sooner."  
  
"I—I'm not sure I understand," Arthur says, but there's that hesitancy again, his eyes revealing that he knows a little, has a hunch.  
  
"You do," Merlin says, certain. "It'll come back."  
  
This time Arthur is the one to lean back in, the kiss much more chaste than previously.  
  
"I feel like I've known you forever," he whispers into the small space between their mouths.  
  
"You have," Merlin says.  
  
Tracy's waffles taste delicious.  


*

  
  
They ease into it a little by little. Arthur is seated next to Merlin on a bench in the park the next day, craning his neck back to gaze at the sky while telling him snippets of stories Merlin knows all too well by now (the memories keep coming back, like telegrams, like _texts_ beeping in every other minute) and Merlin hums when appropriate, nodding along, but never interrupting. This is Arthur's realization, Arthur's disbelief, Arthur's fond smiles when he remembers particularly happy memories, and Merlin doesn't want to spoil it by adding his two cents. They'll have plenty of time for that later, he knows.  
  
"This was always so much fun," Arthur whispers one silent afternoon in Merlin's otherwise abandoned apartment, lips pressed against another, exchanging lazy kisses between stories. "I remember the thrill of it, the possibility that anyone could walk in on us anytime. It was frowned upon but I was their king, wasn't I? They couldn't argue with me, there was nothing they could threaten to do to me, but still. It was so _thrilling_, so damn exciting. And you, they couldn't hurt you either because you could just snap your fingers and turn them into..." Arthur trails off, pulling back a little to stare at him, deep blue eyes examining him like this is the first time he's ever lain eyes upon him. Merlin smiles back a little shyly, knowing perfectly well what that _look_ on the other boy's face means.  
  
"You're— Wow, somehow I _forgot_," is all Arthur says, a mix of awe and fear and acceptance dancing over his face, each emotion another move in a tango he practiced years ago, in a separate life, coming back to him slowly. Merlin nods.  
  
"Can you still—?"  
  
"Yes," Merlin says and turns the lamp on his desk on with a just look. An extended hand opens the lid of his laptop and a spell he can't believe he remembers after all these years makes a small rose appear out of thin air into the palm of his hand. He hands it over to Arthur, laughing.  
  
"Kind of cheesy, but sod it," he says, his grin so wide it's almost threatening to break free from the rest of his face.  
  
For a few moments Arthur doesn't even say anything, just stares out into the open space, from one end of the room to the other, before taking in the sight of the flower in his hand, stroking a hesitant finger over the crimson pedals.  
  
"This is amazing," he says finally, eyes darting up to meet Merlin's and holding the gaze. "_You're_ amazing."  
  
"Well," Merlin says and Arthur puts the rose down carefully behind him on the bed, tugging Merlin closer until they're practically in each others laps, kissing him until they're both so dizzy from the lack of oxygen they have no choice but to separate.  
  
"I guess you're kind of okay yourself, Sire," Merlin says, teasing, and Arthur swats him on the arm, hard.

*

  
  
  
Despite the memories flooding back every wakeful hour, Merlin still dreams about his past life at night. The only noticeable change, however, is that now he sees Arthur's front, not just his back, and all the scenarios seem to be more or less the same. He's older than he is now, not much, in his twenties maybe, and he has learned how to master the trick of transporting himself from one place to the other. It's not like he would have imagined it before, when he thought magic was a fantasy shared by the world. It's not a swirl of colors blaring before his eyes as he spins around and around, eventually finding his footing at the correct destination. No, it's more like the accidental trip overseas to Arthur's home; a quick blink and suddenly he isn't anywhere near his starting point. He doesn't feel the distance straining his bones, like they've been stretched and manipulated, aching because of the broken barriers of time and space. No, he just...ends up somewhere else, just as he is. His magic buzzes within him a bit longer than after casting a simple spell, but that's it. Merlin's a little disappointed by it, if he is being honest.  
  
In the first few dreams he vanishes into thin air from his chambers and travels only a few meters, startling Gaius so much Merlin has to reach out and steady him before he falls. Later, in other dreams, he goes all the way from Camelot to Ealdor. His mom welcomes him with open arms, her breath of relief braying warmly over Merlin's neck as he holds her close. He repeats this trip often, sometimes just popping by for a few minutes to say hello, other times to stay for a couple of days. In one dream, Arthur tags along and Merlin actually _feels_ it then, a form of physical strain as if he has just carried Arthur on his back while he ran all the way there.  
  
"Oh," he says to that, massaging his shoulder to will this new-found feeling away.  
  
Eventually even that becomes easier and he takes Arthur on trips everywhere, fingers digging into the skin of the prince's arms to make sure he has a tight enough grip around him for him to follow. They cross the woods outside Camelot in just a second, Arthur grinning at this new, more practical way of traveling whenever he wants to go hunting, and Merlin crosses his arms at that, unimpressed. In the middle of an unbearable hot summer day, Merlin decides to bring a stop to their misery (especially Arthur's moaning), and transports them from Arthur's chambers into the middle of a lake. Even if he expected it, Merlin gasps as the cool water brays around him, soaking his clothes. Arthur sputters at his side, arms flailing wildly around and he yells until Merlin's laughter rubs off on him. They stay in the lake for hours on end, playfully pushing at each other, sprouting water before ducking below the surface and escaping the other's wrath.  
  
These trips continue, sometimes a spur of the moment thing, other times carefully planned by Arthur's suggestion or Merlin's or maybe both. And then, one day, Merlin dreams that he goes to Arthur in the middle of the night and takes him out of London and to the coast of India, dipping his toes in the chilling water as the sun rises before them, paining the surface of the ocean in bright orange.  
  
"Um, Merlin?" Beside him, Arthur tries to gain his attention but Merlin just hums in reply with eyes closed, fisting his fingers into the grainy sand on the ground, licking at the damp corner of his mouth and the blend of salt and dirt and _life_ is stale on his tongue.  
  
"Where are we?"  
  
"Goa, India, Arthur. Now shut up, I'm trying to enjoy this before I wake up."  
  
"We, uh, _are_ awake," Arthur says a little hesitantly. "At least I am?"  
  
Merlin dares a brief glimpse over at him and does a double take when he sees that Arthur's normal sleep wear is exchanged for a worn Metallica t-shirt and white boxer briefs, quickly finding himself to be in something equally exposing.  
  
"Ehm, this is unexpected," Merlin says for the lack of anything better to say, and Arthur laughs.  
  
"Not that it isn't appreciated, but you did kind of startle me when you suddenly leaned over me while I was sleeping. And then, before I knew it, we ended up here."  
  
"I didn't think I could do this yet," Merlin tells him disbelievingly, looking down at his hands as if they'll bring him the answer to anything if he just stares at them intently enough. "I figured since I was always older in the dreams, I wouldn't get to do this for another few years, if ever."  
  
"You think you can get us back home?"  
  
"Yeah, I think so…" he trails off.  
  
"Let us watch the rest of the sunrise and then you can sweep me off my feet again, yeah?" Arthur smiles and shimmies closer, resting his head on Merlin's shoulder.  
  
When the sun burns high and warm on the blue sky above them, Merlin takes a shaky breath as he holds Arthur close in his arms, closes his eyes and counts to ten for good measure while imagining his room vividly before his eyes. He exhales a breath of relief when he opens them and finds himself exactly where he wants to be.  
  
Arthur leans close, lips ghosting over the line of Merlin's jaw. "That may come in handy," he mutters, guiding Merlin's head to the side until their lips meet.  
  
Merlin agrees and a tiny voice in the back of his head whispers ideas to him, paints him pictures of cities not yet discovered (at least not by him), warm days with fingers laced under the Eiffel tower and rainy days pressed tightly together under an overpriced umbrella they buy off some guy on the street once the gates of heaven opens, making the water pour from the sky in buckets. The Berlin Wall is so much smaller now than it used to be, but it still holds so much power over the past, representing things one shouldn't forget. Merlin recognizes himself in that and nudges Arthur playfully under their temporary shelter, leaning closer to share body heat. _This is all possible_, the voice says as the image fades off, still burning bright in his imagination.  
  
"Travel the world with me?" Merlin asks then, without thinking, knowing all the same that he wants it with all his heart. When Arthur takes his hand in his, Merlin guesses that it was kind of implied already that they would. They have done it once, lifetimes ago, and now they're going to repeating the cycle like they're meant to. Again and again.  
  
"Always," Arthur assures, squeezing his hand.  
  
  


*

  
  
Arthur leaves at the beginning of June, goes back to Norway, and it would have been heartbreaking had the distance actually been an obstacle. At the airport, their shared friends cry (in Sarah and Grace's case) and give we-are-masculine-men-and-we-don't-exploit-our-feelings-like-this pats on the back (in James, Ollie and Tony's case), while Merlin just flashes Arthur a half-smile before kissing him. Everyone knows; they were told not too long after they re-discovered themselves (some parts obviously left in the dark) and besides, Merlin has never been secretive about who he is and who he likes. The guys don't mind much and the girls make high-pitched noises whenever he and Arthur get even remotely close to each other, so he thinks they're all right for the most part.  
  
"You have to come back and visit us often," the ever-lovely host mother Tracy tells him, pulling him into a hug.  
  
"You're always welcome back at our house," host father John says. Arthur thanks them and promises that he will visit as often as he can. (A month later he'll startle them both when he randomly shows up at their doorstep one weekend, Merlin loitering behind him. "Why didn't you tell us you were coming?" Tracy will laugh, and usher them both inside. "I didn't know; it was a spur of the moment thing," Arthur will say, glancing back at a blushing Merlin scratching at his neck. It would be the first of many random visits over the years to come, leaving them less surprised as the years go by, but never any less happy to see him.)  
  
"Doesn't it just break your heart to see him go?" Sarah sniffs, hooking her arm through Merlin's, blonde curls dancing around her face. He watches the strong, familiar back grow smaller and smaller in the distance as Arthur makes it past security and disappears through the crowd in search for the gate.  
  
Merlin takes a deep breath, tightening the grip around her arm as he steers them both around to leave. "Yes," he admits because on some levels it does. From now on all unofficial meetings will be secret in the dark hours of the day. They won't be able to pop over to the other's house for a quick visit or head out to the cinema to catch the latest film, because if anyone sees them they'll be bombarded with _how_ and _when_ and _why haven't you told us you'd be back_'s, which is just better avoided. But on the other hand… They've scheduled a visit the next night and Merlin is already tingling with excitement at the prospect of leaving the country on more or less of a whim, slowly starting off their around the world journey. He can't wait to feel the softness of Arthur's skin beneath his fingertips again, still hungry for the touch despite having felt the body next to him only minutes before. "It'll be all right, though," Merlin adds. "He'll visit us, we'll visit him—it's not that big of a distance, and the plane tickets aren't _that_ expensive if we plan it right."  
  
Sarah hums and James puts a reassuring palm to his back in passing, flashing him a sympathetic smile that Merlin returns.  
  
  


*

  
  
Oslo is laid out, big and pitch-black with scattered blinking lights peering up below them. The city is mostly asleep, except for the odd car driving through the streets and drunk students stumbling their way up the sidewalks, not caring one bit about responsibilities or obligations facing them the next day, too happy and gone to bother with such things in the late night.  
  
"You can _fly_ now?" Arthur stammers, clinging on to Merlin as if his life depends on it. Which it kind of does, come to think about it. Merlin tilts his head forward and laughs against the nape of Arthur's neck, hugging him close, breathing him in.  
  
"I'm not going to drop you," Merlin reassures him, ushering out an extra bit of protective spells from his fingertips just in case, magic weaving around Arthur until he is wrapped so tight in it nothing could hurt him, not even a steep fall to the ground.  
  
Arthur swallows and says, "I'm not so sure I believe you."  
  
"This time, I guess you have no choice but to," Merlin replies and Arthur presses a lazy kiss to his cheek, digging his fingers into Merlin's skin so hard that it hurts.  
  
Above them the stars twinkle naturally, the universe's own creation staring them right in the eye. Below, men's technology manages to do almost the same thing. Merlin is awestruck by how much the world can change by just adding years to it, how much more there are still to discover. He doesn't feel uncomfortable in his skin or like he doesn't belong in this century—because he very much does—but there's still this tingling from years and years ago running through his skin in sheer _excitement_.  
  
The world has surprised him tremendously the last year, so much that he feels old beyond his years, so much that he doesn't think there will ever be a turning back to who he was before. Merlin doesn't think he would want that even if the opportunity bid itself.  
  
Arthur sighs, flashing him a row of white, crooked teeth as the wind ruffles through his golden locks.  
  
"Guess not," he says, and then, a moment later he adds, "Can we, uh, go back down now? I'm kind of irrationally scared of heights."  
  
Merlin bellows out a laugh, but starts his descent anyway and returns them both safe and unharmed on solid ground.  
  
The streets are quiet tonight and they walk unnoticed back to Arthur's posh neighborhood, hand in hand. Summer is drawing to a close and the night air is crisp against their skin as they step up to Arthur's front door.  
  
Arthur is the first to break the silence. "This was fun. Terrifying, but fun."  
  
Merlin nods, stepping forward until he's taken up all of Arthur's space. The action extracts an actual giggle from the boy, and Merlin doesn't have to lean far to shut him up with a kiss. It turns into slick tongues sliding against one another soon enough, exploring familiar territory, which doesn't seem to ever get old. Arthur nips at Merlin's lower lip playfully until Merlin licks his way back into the other boy's mouth, kissing him with intent.  
  
"I'll be back tomorrow, yeah?" he says as he reluctantly pulls back a little breathless.  
  
"You better be," Arthur replies, touching his forehead to Merlin's. The palm of Arthur's hand is warm against his and Merlin thumbs soft strokes over the skin like a reassurance that he will, and blinks.  
  
  
  


*

  


Somewhere in the atmosphere, the universe sighs, contently. Sighs, for fleeting souls embracing their destinies and fitting together like they were always supposed to. And perhaps they don't know it yet, but they will change the world little by little by just sticking together. They are still needed—standing on the sidelines this time, but not being any less important in the whole scheme of things. And then again, when their fragile bodies die, the souls will tear away from their earthly connections and float and float until they yet again reconnect. Always, always meant to find a way back to each other in the end.

  
  
  


**end**


End file.
